Recently, I came across a series of projects by a well-known designer with a massive online following. Their work was bold, creative, and instantly recognizable—an impressive portfolio that clearly demonstrated a strong personal style. But as I kept scrolling, something stood out to me: most, if not all, of their projects looked quite the same.

It’s not unusual for designers to develop a certain style. In fact, a distinct style can be a strength. Think of Zaha Hadid’s sweeping curves and bold geometric designs, Frank Gehry’s sculptural and fragmented forms, or Le Corbusier’s raw and brutalist approach. These architects have carved out these unique visual languages that have now become synonymous with their names.

But when every project starts to feel like a variation of the last, especially in residential, it raises an important question: who is the design really for?

I believe that a designer’s role should shift depending on the project, especially in residential work.

Homes are deeply personal. They should reflect the people who live in them—their routines, preferences, culture, and dreams. Designers should act as translators, not authors. Their job is to listen closely to their clients, understand their vision, and co-create a space that feels uniquely theirs.

As you grow in this profession, you should learn that good design is all about balance: knowing when to step forward and when to step back to let someone else’s story shine. Remind yourselves that the best architecture is not always the most recognizable, but the kind that responds to why (intention), where (context) and who (people) it’s for.

Remember, the most successful projects may not carry a signature—but they speak volumes about the people they were made for.

And that, to me, is the highest form of design.

There was a time when every project started with an idea, a story, a purpose. Designs had depth. It wasn’t just about how things looked, but how they respond to people and real problems.

But in today’s digital age, where inspiration is just a scroll away, we are witnessing a quiet erosion of that depth.

Platforms like Pinterest and Behance used to be great for sharing ideas and inspiring creativity. Now, they’ve become echo chambers of aesthetics, where the algorithm favors beauty over meaning. And as a result, design often feels like it’s being shaped less by context or intention, and more by trends and templates. Everything might look different, but they all kind of feel the same.

Of course, there’s nothing wrong with beauty. But when form consistently outweighs function, and style overshadows narrative, we begin to lose what made design powerful in the first place: its ability to connect. Even the simplest concept, when rooted in meaning, can be impactful.

Technology has made it easier and faster to produce designs. With AI tools, plugins, and endless visual inspiration, anyone can make something that looks good in no time. But by moving so quickly, we often skip the slower, more thoughtful parts of the process—the parts that give a design real meaning and depth.

So where do we go from here?

Maybe it’s about time we slow down. To think deeper. Ask more questions before opening the software:

“What is this design responding to?”
“Who is it for?”
“What story is it telling?”

Because the best designs aren’t just the ones that look good—they’re the ones that carry a story worth sharing.